I got no money.
Yet it’s sunny.
I’m a traveller, I need no home.
I take shelter in the open, my journey is my poem.
I get my food when my lord is me-happy.
Other days he gets a little slappy.
Every unturned stone is my bed.
If not roses, I’m happy with thistle under my head.
That stream and I share the same deer.
The deer and I share the same fear.
But I make friends with the cooling air.
It takes me from here to there, without fare.
If tough days lie ahead, tougher have passed.
Finally after all these years, I have begun to last.
I’m a moment burglar.
A very content struggler.
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